American horror
by thewretchedwriter
Summary: This leaves off from the end of the season.  Characters are not mine, Nor setting.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter one. Apologies.

Violet reached for that familiar blade, the relief to her emotional pain. She glanced at her scars, and cringed. With a sigh, she tediously traced over her previous cuts, inhaling sharply with the shock of pain, and exhaling smoothly with satisfaction as the crimson liquid started to bead up on her pale skin. Her brown eyes started to water a bit. She was trapped, this kept her going, functioning, or as much as a ghost can. She shook with the memory of seeing her decaying body in the basement. She blinked her thoughts away, and sat down in the recognizable antique bathtub, and slid the razor over her wrists again.  
>"You know that doesn't help, love." A voice from the doorway spoke.<br>She jumped a bit, and turned to the voice she'd had a love-hate relationship with.  
>"Tate, I'm dead, not an Alzheimer's patient. But apparently you are. I haven't forgotten what you have done, but clearly you have. I told you I didn't want to see you."<br>"Vi, I love you-"  
>"Tate, I love you too. But you haven't changed. I will always love you, but I need time. And fortunately, that's one thing we have an abundance of." Violets voice got sharp, as she wrapped her wrists and dashed out of the room.<br>She crept up to the attic, and as she sighed, a red rubber ball rolled to her feet.  
>"Hello, Beau. I've missed you." She rolled the ball towards him, and sat down on his bed. Vi had become quite fond of this misunderstood boy. Chains rattled against the old wood floor, which creaked as Beau walked up and sat by violet, Sometimes his only friend. She took a deep breath of the old house's scent, and exhaled as a tear rolled down her pale and cold cheek. It had taken all her strength to tell Tate she hadn't forgiven him. She seemed to collapse a bit, to melt onto the dark, cold wood floor. She curled up into a fetal position, and started crying. Beau whined a bit, unsure what to do. He sat next to her, attempting to comfort his companion.<p>

She was awoken by her father's weeping, accompanied by her mother's quick pacing across the room, and back, and so on. Somewhere the ginger twins screamed as Thaddeus' terrorized them. Hayden's rant to Chad and Patrick about how she would have taken care of the baby, if Constance hadn't abducted it. But she had not heard Tate. He had seemed to stay silent, or at least he planned to, until violet, his soul mate, needed him.  
>He had apologized many times in his head. He just didn't feel the need to anger her again.<br>She had apologized in whispers to herself, apologizing to her parents, for the selfish act of suicide she committed.  
>Vivien apologized in her mind constantly; she felt the weight of guilt on her shoulders, for pushing her husband to suicide.<p>

This house was full of apologies.  
>None of them heard.<br>Whispered for only the walls to hear.  
>"If walls could speak…" Tate whispered to himself.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Violet wandered the creaking house, observing every detail. She was a very curious girl, and paired with the copious amounts of time she had, she took a moment to learn the history of every crack, crevice and mural of this house. The blood stains in the basement, the intriguingly demonic murals Vivien had once attempted to preserve, the knickknacks stashed away… She could learn so much. She snuck out to the roof of the gorgeously eerie Victorian house, taking her…tool…with her. You see, Vi was a bit of an artist. But she did not use charcoals, or a paintbrush, nor a pencil or pen. No, she preferred one that provided a sense of the end. This was no conventional canvas, either. She pulled her sleeve up, her utensil was a razorblade, and her stationary was her pale flesh. Her inspiration? The pain. Of everything. Even life after death, there was pain. Nothing's easy. She sat and wept, as she whispered to herself that she missed him.  
>A cold hand on her shoulder startled her. "I miss you too" A familiar voice spoke quietly.<br>Violets first reaction was to be angry, but she caught herself.  
>"I'm tired of holding a grudge. I miss you, and quite honestly I need you. What you did was terrible but-Tate, I love you with all my heart. Together for always, remember?"<p>

He rushed over and tore part of his shirt to wrap her wounds. He kissed her forehead and she lay in his lap. As she listened to the mirage of his heartbeat, she drifted off. "Together for always" He said in a charming tone.  
>Downstairs ben moped. He had been enlisted to an eternal life in this hellhole of tiffany lamps and oak moldings. He had overcome his depression at this part of the day, replaying his role as the Psychiatrist of the house. Tate had been visiting him recently. There were clear efforts to change his persona, for the sake of his and vi's relationship. Vivien had taken up restoring parts of the house. There were several interested buyers, but no done deals yet.<br>The residents of the house were grateful, though. For two reasons. One, they would never wish this demonic cesspool on any decent being. Two, they don't want to share the house again. It would be painful, and they would be full of envy. Envious of the real blood that pulses through them, envious of the fact they can leave the house, envious of all the privileges they don't realize they have.  
>Vivien sighed, as a family walked past the house, and uttered to herself "Funny, death gives you a brand new perspective on life." from behind her, Hayden proclaimed; " Oh, the irony."<br>The residents of the house had to learn to get along, though each had their vices, and their reasons to hate each other. But they were all trapped in this creepy Victorian house…  
>Violet was now with Tate, but when she got her alone time, she wasn't alone, she had her fateful friend the razor. No matter how close Tate was, she was still in pain. It was the pain of guilt; pain of hatred for herself and others, and the pain of loneliness. There are certain types of people in this world, who… they have a state of mind, no matter how many people they're surrounded with, they still feel the black pit of loneliness consuming them, their mind and personality. But you see, these people, like violet, learn to fake a smile. They fake that smile but at night when no one is there to notice, they breakdown. They cut, they cry, they think about darker things. Tate had once been this type of person, but time has changed him. "This may be why Tate is so compatible with me," Violet thought, as she dug the razor into her wrist, watching the blood flow down her forearm and off to the cold tile floor. The crimson was comforting, almost hypnotizing as she went emotionally numb. She reached for the peroxide, and pondered why she bothered to keep infection away, when she couldn't really die. It burned a bit.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Tate blinked awake, jumping out of bed at the doorbell ring. He heard a muffled voice, and ran downstairs. He opened to door with a sharp inhale. His mother, Constance, was standing at the door, with a small swaddled package. She stepped inside the house without invitation, as Tate was frozen with a shocked demeanor upon him. The swaddle of cloth wailed loudly, almost like it knew this atmosphere. This dreadful place it had been born, and abducted, stolen away for its own good. Vivien rushed down the stairs, and Hayden appeared from behind the steps. The ginger children banged their bats against the basement wall, and rushed up the stairs with distinct thumps. Chad and Patrick smirked from the couch, and Ben released a whimper. Violet came up behind Tate and tried to comfort him a bit. "What a lovely family gathering" Constance scoffed. Vivien rolled her eyes and pondered aloud "What are you doing here? Especially with that, you'd promised to protect…" "yeah, yeah". The stubborn blonde uttered. "There's something about this house. I think there's something here she needs. She has these night terrors, and nothing makes them better. She crawls out of her crib at night and onto the window ledge to stare out at this dreadful place. She watches the people walk by, and murmurs to herself, inaudible words, of course, because she can't speak, but you can hear her trying to verbalize the thoughts in her tiny little head." The humble bunch found their minds drifting out to places beyond, none in the same as the person next to them. As the small talk commenced, Violet thought back, to the most beautiful place she had ever seen. A false front had been put up, when she has died that night. Tate had helped set up this fantasy, in which she hadn't died. She was in denial. But now that the lies had melted away, now that she accepted the reality, she truly remembers that night. Death is a fascinating thing. She reminisced. The feeling of death is so calming at first… It's a place, you know. It's a concept, and a place. Once you've passed on, from natural causes, or in my case, not so natural, you arrive. She thought of the wonderful lands of greens and blues, and such a calming ora. It's no clouds and pearly gates, but it's much, much more elaborate, and gorgeous. If mortals knew about this wonderful place, I'm sure the population issues would be solved. There's a great tree, its roots growing deep into the brown soil, the rough bark a beautiful burgundy. She traced her eyes up the trunk, to see cascading leaves, with a plethora of colors. There were pale pinks, Chartreuse greens, icy blues, vivacious violets, each varying a shade from leaf to leaf. There were acres of grain and grass, waving in mesmerizing patterns with the wind, each piece swerving individually. Violet curiously walked through the path, her brown eyes widening. In a state of euphoria, almost. She kept walking to a beautiful lake, its reflective waters like a pool of mercury, as a wind cast a current over it. She fell back into the grass, peaceful. This utopia doesn't last forever, though. She saw a young blonde boy, with freckled cheeks and beautiful bright brown eyes. He chuckled and ran, so violet sped after him. Laughing, in her red sundress with her favorite hat, she followed the boy. Through the familiar streets of los Angeles, the boy wandered. He grabbed violets pale hand, and led her, she watched her feet, and arrived at her front step, confused. She looked at the hand she was holding, and looked up to the person attached to it. The small blonde boy had grown into Tate. After a sweet embrace, he slid his hand down to her waist to pull her closer, and pressed his lips against hers. His eyelashes grazed her rosy cheeks, as she pulled back to smile at the young man she had come to love.  
>That was that night, the night she had mentally blocked while in her state of denial.<br>It was all so beautiful, she pondered.  
>Why couldn't I have stayed there? Why this hellhole?<br>She sighed and lit up a natural Indian spirit smoke, the classic Indian on the blue box smiling up at her. 


	4. Chapter 4

Violet sighed. She had felt so numb. It's ironic how her suicide didn't save her, she was in the same emotionless depression as always. She was glad she didn't have to go to school anymore, that was the only upside to this unfortunate afterlife.  
>Tate was holding her in his arms, though he was distracted himself. Violet often pondered about what he was thinking about. Tate's mind was a dark and twisted place. He often had flashbacks to the multiple murders he had committed, especially the school shooting. Now that his mind was more clear, he saw the flaws. Any normal person would have killed the kids, who tortured and ridiculed other kids, but he killed the more innocent ones. You see, Tate was not the biggest fan of this world of ours. All the lies and corruption, he figured killing the innocent ones would save them from this awful world. Little did he know about the terrible afterlife that waited them. What a twisted existence, he thought. What could have created this plan? How this works, how life sucks, and you die, and it's good for about 5 minutes, then it sucks again. There's no escape. In life the escape is suicide, but once you've done that, you realize there is no real escape.<br>"What's on your mind, babe?" violet interrupted his thoughts-

"Nothing. I'm fine." Tate said monotonously..  
>Violet sat up, unhappy. "I'm so sick of that goddamn lie. Everyone says they're 'fine' and only the idiots believe it. It's bullshit! Everyone knows they aren't fine! It's ridiculous. I've used it a million times. I could be crying my eyes out and slitting my damn wrists and I'd say I'm fine. No one admits to being weak. No one admits to being insane inside, to wanting to end their existence completely. No one admits that to the world Tate, but we're together for always, remember, you said so. You can tell me if you aren't fine."<br>"…baby…I'm not fine." He uttered.  
>"Come here. Vi will make things better for a bit." She sighed.<br>She took his hand and led him to the bed. Cuddling always helped, having her that close to him, feeling her warmth, putting his arms around her and running his fingers up and down her back, there was something therapeutic about her. She laid her head on his chest, traced the indents with her cold fingers. She ran her lips up his neck and kissed his cheek, then lay back down. He smiled his classic charming smirk, and kissed her temple.

They lay and talked, and forgot about the world,  
>and that was the day,<p>

Where just for a bit,

For the first time in a long time,

Tate,

Was fine.


End file.
